PART I
DREAMS
For those who dare to dream, there is a whole world to win!
- Dhirubhai Ambani
CHAPTER 1
Panting, screaming, gnashing of teeth, cries in the night. Desperate cries of panic and fatigue. Burning, tingling, crawling, and itching. Brief whiffs of hot burning flesh. Fierce roars of fire starting across the smoky lake. Singeing of hair, gnawing of delicate skin on the inside of putrid oral cavities, and then he appears. Crowns of flames surround multiple heads. Heads so repulsive they smolder one’s eyes with a single glance. Tongues of snakes, red in color split down the middle, hiss as they fall like whips across the hot rocky surface where he stands. Arms moving in smooth peristaltic rhythm six on each side. Digits of dogs. Fingernails of sharp metallic blades. A tail of flames whipping cutting the stagnate smoke that lurks around the lake. Shrill cries from prisoners of his doom faintly resonating around the scorching chamber. Blinding flashes of light, as his mouth opens from the head on the far end of his body.
“Sinner Prepare!”
“Where am I? Where am I?”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Hello, anyone there?” the messenger called out “Hello!” His eyes sprang open. Sweet salt dripped from his upper lip and slid across his tongue. He forced his aching muscles of his abdomen to pull him to a sitting position. Hot breath rushed out of his mouth in rapid successions. It must have been a dream. The soft fabric of the egyptian cotton sheets brushed his forehead and cheeks. The faint smell of sweat flashed from his clothing.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Hello, I’m bout to leave. Yo better open up. I’s gots some important pa’pas fo ya.”
“I’m commin’ hold the **** on!” He yelled across the studio apartment.
He pulled the wooden door open, and was anesthetized by the large black man that stood in his presence.
“Yes?”
“I’s need you to sign on this there line. These be yo divorce pa’pas.”
He scribbled something down on the line where the messenger was pointing. His signature, not even legible to his own eyes, gained a chary stare from the messenger. After the large brown envelope was placed in his hands, he quickly slammed the door in the black man’s face without a thank you or a have a nice day. He tripped over the dirty piles of clothes in the middle of the counterfeit ceramic tile flooring of his makeshift living area. What a living area. One leather wing back chair brown in color and a mismatching ottoman to follow. The swivel office chair squeaked with the pressure of his weight. He listened to the sound of papers shifting, and dust spraying, as the envelope addressed to his apartment hit the desk.
If anyone knew anything about pain, he did. It was exactly six months ago from this day that he moved out into the solitude of the real world. His wife forced him out of his own home. The home, built with his own hands, blood, sweat, and tears. That bitch. She managed to do it. After all those years of saying it, she finally did it. “You best watch your step. I’ll take you for everything you own.” The loathed words were repeated daily in his thoughts. Yep if anyone knew about loosing, hurting, fighting, and pain he did. It was time to move on. Time to show everyone in this wretched town who’s hurting now, and with that thought he did. Oh but not his wife. Even though she fought to rid him from her life, it was something stronger that was really the source of blame. Something so strong, he thought, it could never be penetrated. Until now. The plan he devised was brilliant. A slight tinge of electricity from his brain traveled down his spine and strummed the nerves of his stomach making a trivial gurgle sound as he thought about the plan. He embraced the cold metal of the gel pen, and again scribbled some illegible cursive across the lines that had an X symbolizing where a signature is needed.
Tic, tic, tic the sweat that had formed across his forehead dripped down hitting the white legal sized papers, which bent up around the circles of the clear salty liquid. It was painful. How could the simple act of signing a paper be so painful? How could it hurt so much? He didn’t know, but it did. Maybe because now it was official; it truly was the end. No more cheerful home. No more cheerful children with smiling faces and warm bear hugs. No, now it was really over.
He jumped at the sound of the electronic coffee pot that began it’s normal brewing at seven in the evening. Soon the stark aroma of strong Community Coffee crammed the small space. The space he had called home for six months now. While stirring in two raw sugars without cream, he placed the dirty spoon down it was time to check on his project.
When he rented the small studio, he also rented the adjacent studio even smaller than his own. The old dilapidated building was once the sight of a grand hotel. A hotel built family style with adjourning rooms for larger groups. He explained to the baffled faced landlord that he needed the extra space for an office to finish his present novel. Complete and utter lie of course. Inside the room he boarded up the door that led to the hallway with thick ply-wood. He placed several locks, bolts, and chains on the door inside his studio that gave way to the adjourning room. He lifted his keys from the rack next to his bed, and began the daily ritual of opening and unlocking.
The dust, mold, and mildew from the walls and dingy carpet latched on to his nose hair and blew out with powerful sneezing. The room, lit up only with one yellow glowing light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling, was hazy and hard on the eyes. Several items, strategically placed in all four corners of the room, were covered with large outdoor tarps. Each to be removed in precious time. Yes the process has been slow, but it will all pay off for the best. One item was not covered in the far corner of the room. He staggered slowly with squinting eyes making his way to that sacred corner.
When the boy realized he was in the room, he used his hands, bound by leather to the top of the “torture pole”, to shake back and forth ferociously. His words, or grunts rather, were garbled by the leather gag he covered his mouth with. He stood tall and lean. He used his digital camera to capture pictures of Brandon’s emaciating image that looked back at him.
“Now, now, young one don’t cry.” He spoke calmly with a sense of concern in his voice. The boy struggled more. A few tears burned their way down the delicate contours of his face.
“Oh I get it, you’re cold. How bout this, I’ll cover you if you don’t struggle anymore.” The boys sparkling blue eyes winked with approval. He placed a large dusty fleece cover around the boy’s shoulders. He admired his naked body. Yes he loved women, but he still had a passion for boys in their twenties. It reminded him of his young adult life. Full of exuberance, fresh young mind making life long choices, which at the time seemed only like everyday choices. Not giving much thought to how it may affect you the rest of your life. He used a sharp object, from the table across the so called torture chamber, and made small holes in the skin of the boy’s chest. Once again he struggled, pulling the leather restraints side to side, as he pricked his pale skin.
“Don’t do that!” He yelled. “Did I not make myself clear? You must not want that blanket hun…?”
Using his thumb, and the dark red blood, that fell from the pricks in his skin, he painted the sign of the cross. Up down and side to side. He recited in his head. In nomine patrie, Et fili, Spiritus sancti Amen.
“Pray with me boy.” He began the daily prayer “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace; Where there is hatred, let me sow love; Where there is injury” He kissed the painful holes in the boy’s chest blood smeared across his lips. The warm taste of rust and liquorish tickled the tips of his taste buds. “pardon; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light; And where there is sadness, joy.” He knelt at Brandon’s feet, head bowed speaking more slowly now “Oh, divine mater, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen”
DREAMS
For those who dare to dream, there is a whole world to win!
- Dhirubhai Ambani
CHAPTER 1
Panting, screaming, gnashing of teeth, cries in the night. Desperate cries of panic and fatigue. Burning, tingling, crawling, and itching. Brief whiffs of hot burning flesh. Fierce roars of fire starting across the smoky lake. Singeing of hair, gnawing of delicate skin on the inside of putrid oral cavities, and then he appears. Crowns of flames surround multiple heads. Heads so repulsive they smolder one’s eyes with a single glance. Tongues of snakes, red in color split down the middle, hiss as they fall like whips across the hot rocky surface where he stands. Arms moving in smooth peristaltic rhythm six on each side. Digits of dogs. Fingernails of sharp metallic blades. A tail of flames whipping cutting the stagnate smoke that lurks around the lake. Shrill cries from prisoners of his doom faintly resonating around the scorching chamber. Blinding flashes of light, as his mouth opens from the head on the far end of his body.
“Sinner Prepare!”
“Where am I? Where am I?”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Hello, anyone there?” the messenger called out “Hello!” His eyes sprang open. Sweet salt dripped from his upper lip and slid across his tongue. He forced his aching muscles of his abdomen to pull him to a sitting position. Hot breath rushed out of his mouth in rapid successions. It must have been a dream. The soft fabric of the egyptian cotton sheets brushed his forehead and cheeks. The faint smell of sweat flashed from his clothing.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Hello, I’m bout to leave. Yo better open up. I’s gots some important pa’pas fo ya.”
“I’m commin’ hold the **** on!” He yelled across the studio apartment.
He pulled the wooden door open, and was anesthetized by the large black man that stood in his presence.
“Yes?”
“I’s need you to sign on this there line. These be yo divorce pa’pas.”
He scribbled something down on the line where the messenger was pointing. His signature, not even legible to his own eyes, gained a chary stare from the messenger. After the large brown envelope was placed in his hands, he quickly slammed the door in the black man’s face without a thank you or a have a nice day. He tripped over the dirty piles of clothes in the middle of the counterfeit ceramic tile flooring of his makeshift living area. What a living area. One leather wing back chair brown in color and a mismatching ottoman to follow. The swivel office chair squeaked with the pressure of his weight. He listened to the sound of papers shifting, and dust spraying, as the envelope addressed to his apartment hit the desk.
If anyone knew anything about pain, he did. It was exactly six months ago from this day that he moved out into the solitude of the real world. His wife forced him out of his own home. The home, built with his own hands, blood, sweat, and tears. That bitch. She managed to do it. After all those years of saying it, she finally did it. “You best watch your step. I’ll take you for everything you own.” The loathed words were repeated daily in his thoughts. Yep if anyone knew about loosing, hurting, fighting, and pain he did. It was time to move on. Time to show everyone in this wretched town who’s hurting now, and with that thought he did. Oh but not his wife. Even though she fought to rid him from her life, it was something stronger that was really the source of blame. Something so strong, he thought, it could never be penetrated. Until now. The plan he devised was brilliant. A slight tinge of electricity from his brain traveled down his spine and strummed the nerves of his stomach making a trivial gurgle sound as he thought about the plan. He embraced the cold metal of the gel pen, and again scribbled some illegible cursive across the lines that had an X symbolizing where a signature is needed.
Tic, tic, tic the sweat that had formed across his forehead dripped down hitting the white legal sized papers, which bent up around the circles of the clear salty liquid. It was painful. How could the simple act of signing a paper be so painful? How could it hurt so much? He didn’t know, but it did. Maybe because now it was official; it truly was the end. No more cheerful home. No more cheerful children with smiling faces and warm bear hugs. No, now it was really over.
He jumped at the sound of the electronic coffee pot that began it’s normal brewing at seven in the evening. Soon the stark aroma of strong Community Coffee crammed the small space. The space he had called home for six months now. While stirring in two raw sugars without cream, he placed the dirty spoon down it was time to check on his project.
When he rented the small studio, he also rented the adjacent studio even smaller than his own. The old dilapidated building was once the sight of a grand hotel. A hotel built family style with adjourning rooms for larger groups. He explained to the baffled faced landlord that he needed the extra space for an office to finish his present novel. Complete and utter lie of course. Inside the room he boarded up the door that led to the hallway with thick ply-wood. He placed several locks, bolts, and chains on the door inside his studio that gave way to the adjourning room. He lifted his keys from the rack next to his bed, and began the daily ritual of opening and unlocking.
The dust, mold, and mildew from the walls and dingy carpet latched on to his nose hair and blew out with powerful sneezing. The room, lit up only with one yellow glowing light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling, was hazy and hard on the eyes. Several items, strategically placed in all four corners of the room, were covered with large outdoor tarps. Each to be removed in precious time. Yes the process has been slow, but it will all pay off for the best. One item was not covered in the far corner of the room. He staggered slowly with squinting eyes making his way to that sacred corner.
When the boy realized he was in the room, he used his hands, bound by leather to the top of the “torture pole”, to shake back and forth ferociously. His words, or grunts rather, were garbled by the leather gag he covered his mouth with. He stood tall and lean. He used his digital camera to capture pictures of Brandon’s emaciating image that looked back at him.
“Now, now, young one don’t cry.” He spoke calmly with a sense of concern in his voice. The boy struggled more. A few tears burned their way down the delicate contours of his face.
“Oh I get it, you’re cold. How bout this, I’ll cover you if you don’t struggle anymore.” The boys sparkling blue eyes winked with approval. He placed a large dusty fleece cover around the boy’s shoulders. He admired his naked body. Yes he loved women, but he still had a passion for boys in their twenties. It reminded him of his young adult life. Full of exuberance, fresh young mind making life long choices, which at the time seemed only like everyday choices. Not giving much thought to how it may affect you the rest of your life. He used a sharp object, from the table across the so called torture chamber, and made small holes in the skin of the boy’s chest. Once again he struggled, pulling the leather restraints side to side, as he pricked his pale skin.
“Don’t do that!” He yelled. “Did I not make myself clear? You must not want that blanket hun…?”
Using his thumb, and the dark red blood, that fell from the pricks in his skin, he painted the sign of the cross. Up down and side to side. He recited in his head. In nomine patrie, Et fili, Spiritus sancti Amen.
“Pray with me boy.” He began the daily prayer “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace; Where there is hatred, let me sow love; Where there is injury” He kissed the painful holes in the boy’s chest blood smeared across his lips. The warm taste of rust and liquorish tickled the tips of his taste buds. “pardon; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light; And where there is sadness, joy.” He knelt at Brandon’s feet, head bowed speaking more slowly now “Oh, divine mater, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen”
